


Absolution

by Ballades



Series: Questionable Chemistry [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Sparring, Spoilers, blackwall/cassandra friendship, my queen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-06 08:22:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/pseuds/Ballades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassandra's anger and disappointment stings the worst out of all the companions in the Inner Circle.  Blackwall misses their friendship, but knows things can never be the same.  An exploration of how Cassandra and Blackwall might have arrived where they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I liked the quiet camaraderie between these two warriors, and was sad to hear Cassandra's reaction. I imagined that the road to acceptance might be littered with cracked ribs, empty tankards, and punching things out.

Cassandra hits _hard._

When he sees her walk up to the ring, Blackwall shivers. He’s been running through forms on the training dummy for a while, long enough to break a sweat, but it cools instantly, chilling him. Nowadays she avoids him if possible, refuses to talk to him if they’re together. But if she’s here…

She doesn’t even address him by name, just makes sure he sees her. She’s holding two blunted tourney swords. She chucks one at him, and he catches it awkwardly. “Get ready,” she commands.

Blackwall braces himself for the beating of his life. “My lady Seeker,” he says, holding both his wooden sword and the tourney sword, unsure of how he should react. Any situation he can think of is lose-lose.

“The Inquisitor suggested that I talk things out with you.” Cassandra’s voice fairly drips with derision. She picks up a round shield that’s lying close to the base of one of the dummies. “She did not say what language I should use. I am comfortable in this one.” She looks at him, eyes narrowed, puts up her shield, raises her sword to middle guard, angles the tip up in the tiniest, most perfunctory salute he’s seen in his life.

He sighs, then drops the wooden sword. He nudges the toe of his boot underneath the crossguard, balancing it for half a second, whips his leg out and sends the sword flying over the fence of the ring. “My lady Seeker, you know I hold you in great respect -”

“I don’t give a shit about your respect,” Cassandra interrupts him coldly. “This is about penance, yours and mine. I was told to work out my issues, and I will do so.” She clashes her sword against her shield. “Now ready yourself! I am through with words.”

She advances, placing careful footstep in front of careful footstep. Blackwall casts about for a shield. He’s going to need one to weather the barrage of hits coming his way. He spots one, grabs it, slides his arm into the straps and grips it securely. Cassandra has not moved from her guard stance, standing statue-still, focused like one of Sera’s arrows, deadly and direct. Only her eyes move as they follow him back across the packed dirt.

He settles reluctantly into a tail guard stance, sword held behind him. Blackwall rolls his wrist, testing the heft of the sword, wondering how he can best get this over quickly. Or perhaps he’ll let her come at him, offer up his body as collateral, let her take out her anger and frustration and disappointment on a live dummy so that he can quit feeling like complete shit every time she passes by.

Cassandra charges him silently, booted feet a whisper on the dirt. Blackwall tenses, arm and chest and thigh muscles cording out, and he takes her hit full on, grunting with the impact. Cassandra touches her blade to the top of her shield, length sliding noisily across the edge. Blackwall almost knocks it away but doesn’t, hisses out his pain as the rounded point jabs into his chest, right above the heart. He stumbles backward, doubling over, gasping for breath as the pain radiates through him.

“Fight me!” Cassandra bellows at him. She draws up for an overhead swing, slashes down. Blackwall catches the blow just barely on his shield, the force of it pulsing up his arm and into his shoulder. He scrambles backwards to disengage, resettles his sword in front of him, deflects Cassandra’s next two strikes.

“I cannot, lady Seeker,” he tells her in between the dulled thwacks of their weapons. He is on the defensive, can only be on the defensive. Maker’s _fucking_ balls, the woman can hit. His chest is throbbing.

Cassandra’s face is a thunderhead. “Coward,” she accuses him.

Blackwall shrugs in response, backstepping to avoid a middling swing. It’s not like he’s ever denied the truth of what he is. “You’ll have to do better than that, my lady.”

She makes a wordless noise of rage and presses the attack, her sword making a low hum in the air. Three strikes in quick succession - Blackwall knows the combination, anticipates the end, chooses not to set his feet for the last hit. Her shield and sword slam into him in the space of a second, a wicked one-two combination that sends him reeling, his shield pushed aside, her blade landing between his neck and shoulder in a perfect downward cut. Blackwall grunts, grits his teeth around a swear. He’s going to need Master Dennet’s horse balm for the inevitable welt.

Cassandra separates from him, opens up the space for another bout. Despite having gotten two lethal touches on him, her dark eyes are still bright with anger. “ _Fight me,”_ she grinds out at him.

“Would it make you feel better if I did?” he asks, dropping back into guard, rolling his left shoulder, testing its mobility.

“I’m not here to hit a sack of straw,” she tells him. She rocks forward and back, balance shifting from foot to foot. Cassandra is normally the more defensive one, but she initiates again, sword extending.

Blackwall counters laterally, batting her blade aside. She closes with him with her shield instead, and in that instant Blackwall’s instincts take over. He meets her shield with his, angles his arm out to change the trajectory, and in a flash his swordpoint is around the lower edge of his shield, cutting at her lead leg. Cassandra jumps aside, puts space between them again. “Better,” she says.

“As you say, my lady.” He’ll do his best to placate her. He can’t help reacting to certain situations, but Blackwall knows Cassandra just wants to hit him, so he’ll let her do it until the emotion is all drained out and the shakes set in.

They close again, over and over. Occasionally he lands a blow - on her shield arm, his sword levering over the top of his shield, striking quick; on her off shoulder, a low-to-high backslash - but she is the clear victor, scoring hit after vicious hit on him. Every single one is a killing blow, he notes grimly, and when he takes his underpadding off later he knows his body will read like a treatise on murder. Decapitation, here. Heart strike, here. Lung puncture, lacerated liver, severed carotid, crushed temple. Blackwall’s flesh will be a supernova of blooming bruises tonight, evidence of an absolution given in iron and sweat.

Cassandra initiates yet again. Blackwall puts his sword up, but she engages him in the weak part of the blade and executes a flawless lunge. Metal scrapes against metal as she twists her wrist. _Oh shit,_ Blackwall thinks, then follows it up with a roar as Cassandra stop-thrusts her sword into the same spot above his heart. Agony bursts through his chest and he crumples, sinking to his knees, breath gone, choking from the pain.

Cullen’s voice comes to his ears dimly. “That was ill done, Cassandra.”

Blackwall can hear Cassandra’s glare in her voice. “Stay out of this, Commander. It does not concern you.”

“I’ve watched you kill him three times already, Cassandra. That last touch would have speared a boar, had your blade been real. Fight if you must, but not like this.” Footsteps; a gloved hand in front of his face. Blackwall accepts the help without a word, pulls himself to his feet, leaving his sword in the dust. He’d thank Cullen, but he’s pretty sure the Commander doesn’t want it. He does it anyway.

“Was it a good talk, my lady Seeker?” Blackwall pulls his shield off his left arm, lets it clang. He either needs to walk into a snowbank on the far slopes of the mountain and stay there, or find the biggest tub in the barracks and soak for a week. Perhaps both. His entire body is aching, pain spiking to the hitching gallop of his heart, and every movement brings a new flare of torment. It hurts just to breathe. By tomorrow, it’ll be worse. Much, much worse.

She makes a noise of disgust. “No,” she answers him, but as he looks at her he can see that something has softened, given way. The righteous fire that has been sustaining her is guttering out, leaving behind a measured calm. “We’re done here.” Cassandra’s eyes linger on him for a moment before she pivots on her heel and strides away.

Blackwall hobbles out of the ring, back to his quarters. He can feel Cullen’s eyes boring into the back of his head as he goes, no doubt making some kind of judgment. As for him, he needs to get to Master Dennet and ask about the salve. He needs it, and as much alcohol as he can get down before he passes out. With luck, he’ll wake up drunk in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

Sera comes to visit him the next day.

Or rather, she visits, then revisits, and re-revisits, and sometimes Blackwall cracks open an eye to see her peering down at him (“TITS!” she shouts triumphantly, raising her arms, and he can’t help but smile) with an expression that might be concern on her face.  Other times, he swims up towards consciousness and just knows she’s been there.

It’s already late afternoon, sun slanting into early evening, by the time Blackwall maneuvers himself out of his bed.  The alcohol fumes have finally cleared out, which is a blessing and a curse, and he has to piss something awful.  He makes his way gingerly down the stairs of the loft, wincing at each step.  His torso aches, pain a hot rush every time his ribcage expands for breath, and both sides of his neck and shoulders throb if he so much as cants his head a degree to the side.

He gets down to the bottom of the stairs, exhales softly, then wrinkles his nose in distaste.  He’s in bad, bad shape.  His teeth are fuzzy and he has the oily slick of a rough night in his mouth.  Blackwall sets himself to the basic ablutions - slowly, and with his jaw clamped tightly around wayward grunts of pain - and by the end, he feels better.  Somewhat.

Blackwall looks around the the barn, sees the empty plates gleaming with reflected sunlight, a cluster of colored bottles with Maker knows what sorts of concoctions in them, and a small vase shoved full of white flowers.  He feels his chest clench, and lets out a long, measured sigh.  Careful footsteps take him to the flowers, and as he passes his workbench he reaches out, a force of habit by now, and lays his hand fondly on the head of the little griffon, giving the wooden feathers a little pat.  All that’s needed now is for Master Harritt to send up the tiny leather bridle and saddle he’s ordered, and the toy will be complete.

The flowers are cool against his cheeks and beard when he inhales, the lightly-glazed vase round and comforting in his hand.  The neck of the vase is packed with slim green stems, the five-petaled heads clustered together so tightly that they resemble a fragrant cloud.  Josephine must have spent hours finding them all, he thinks, and his chest hitches again.  He sets the flowers down and inspects Sera’s gifts.  The bottles are sitting on top of a piece of badly-torn paper, illustrated with Andraste’s hairy eyeball above a large and pimply butt.  Angrily-drawn arrows are sticking into it, and Blackwall gives up counting how many are flying towards it or embedded in it.  He’s not sure what the note is supposed to mean when coupled with the bottles.  They could be taken some kind of painkiller, or he could just as easily assume they were meant to be thrown at Cassandra.  Blackwall makes a mental note to keep the paper, and dispose of the bottles carefully.

He takes the plates, several large ones, and stacks them, intending to bring them back to the tavern later.  Sera is a dear, despite her daftness, but she can never resist food.  The plates are shiny - licked clean, he knows; the echoes of starvation do not ever fully dissipate - but he’s thankful for the gesture anyway.

“You’re up.  I was beginning to get worried.”

Blackwall hesitates before he turns to face the Inquisitor, but he does eventually.  “Inquisitor.  Nothing to worry about,” he says to her.  “Just some bruises and a bit of wallowing.”

She walks over, her armor clanking softly.  From the state of her garments, Trevelyan must have just returned from a trip.  He’d slept through the chantry bells ringing.  “I’ve heard you’re an expert on it, but you can stop now.  You’ve been forgiven, and you won’t be able to start over if the past keeps anchoring you down.”

He says nothing, only feels a swell of gratitude, a ridiculously huge swell of gratitude, that Trevelyan’s heart is so big, big enough to take him as he is, past and all.  He looks at her, her slight figure, snow-encrusted, all raven hair and high cheekbones, dark eyes and beautiful soul, and remains in silence.  He knows no words to express what he feels.

Trevelyan is used to this, the lapses in conversation, the heavy silences.  She comes closer, her mouth turning down at the corners.  “Let me look at you.  Cullen’s already spoken to me about what happened, and I’m sorry.  Cassandra hits _hard._ ”

Blackwall lowers his head and eyes, submits to the Inquisitor’s delicate fingers.  Her breath whistles through her teeth as she inspects him.  “I’m sure the worst of it is under here,” she says, gesturing to his clothing.  “I thought this might help.”

She produces a slim vial from a hidden pocket, holds it up.  It’s an elfroot potion.  Blackwall swallows, feeling that overwhelming gratitude again.  How he has such friends, he doesn’t know.

“If it’s alright by you, my lady,” he starts, but the Inquisitor cuts him off.

“Aeveth, Thom.  Out there, it’s different.  In here, we’re friends.  I’m Aeveth.  And I’m about to give my friend Thom something to ease his pain.”

He nods, acquiescing again.  She has always been like this: quietly domineering, putting out her expectations and getting her way.  Truthfully, Blackwall is just tired, tired of fighting, of pretending, maybe even tired of the constant self-flagellation.  But never tired of the bodies he drags behind him, or the guilt etched onto his spirit.

“If it’s alright by you, Aeveth,” he starts again, “I’ll keep my bruises.”

It’s her turn to remain silent.  Blackwall can see the words forming in the air, almost; he can practically hear her thoughts.  Finally, she says, “I respect your decision.”  Then, “I think you should play the wounded puppy act around her.  Just to make her feel sorry for being so unfair.”

He smiles.  “My lady Aeveth, I wouldn’t have to play anything.”  Cassandra’s marks on him are part of the healing process, so he hopes; he has to bear them, go through this trial to earn her friendship.

The Inquisitor puts the potion back into her pocket, smiles back at him, turns to go.  “I’ll see you later, Thom.”

Blackwall waits until she crosses the yard and is out of sight.  Then he sighs heavily, closes his eyes.  He needs a trip to the tavern for some food.  Sera will be there.  He hopes she doesn’t make him laugh too much.


	3. Chapter 3

She sits across from the Inquisitor, and there is silence.

The Inquisitor has her arms crossed, slouching slightly in her chair. She stares down at the table for a long moment as Cassandra waits, fingers drumming impatiently against her thigh.

“The suspense is killing me, Aeveth.”

The Inquisitor sighs, rubs a hand against her face. “I’m sorry Cassandra, I know how much you hate stewing. I suppose I’ll just come out and say it.” Aeveth’s eyes flick up to meet hers. “It’s about Thom. What were you _thinking?”_

Inwardly, Cassandra grimaces. She knows exactly what Aeveth is asking. “I take it Cullen spoke to you.”

“He did, and it wasn’t pleasant. Cassandra, if even Cullen isn’t charitable in his words towards you… did you really have to beat Thom black and blue? You punch like a horse kicks. I think you might have cracked some ribs.”

Cassandra straightens up, holds herself stiffly. “I told him to fight me, and he refused.”

Aeveth makes a disgusted noise. “That’s no reason to continue hitting him! I need him more than ever now that you’re bound for Val Royeaux, and your last action is to make him unfit for travel. Cassandra, really.” She huffs, exasperated. “When I told you to go talk to him, I didn’t mean for you to do it _with a sword._ ” Aeveth looks away from her then, takes a deep breath and sighs it out loudly. “Well, do you feel any better knowing that he won’t be able to blink without pain for at least a week?”

She does, actually, but Cassandra knows better than to admit it. “No.”

“That’s a relief,” Aeveth says, though she is eyeballing her suspiciously. “I went to go see him yesterday, offered him a draught of elfroot to take the edge off his pain. He told me no.” Aeveth leans forward. “He _told me no_ , Cassandra. He said he’d keep his bruises. Isn’t that sad? He wants your approval back so much that he chooses to remain in agony.”

Cassandra’s lips tighten into a line, though she approves of Blackwall’s decision to keep the reminders of his trouncing at her hands. It’s principled of him. Respectable. Grudgingly. “That is noble of him.”

Aeveth makes another disgusted noise and rolls her eyes. “I am never going to understand warriors, ever. Cullen said the same thing, said that it would help the trust issues.” Aeveth levels her gaze at Cassandra again. “Let me make this abundantly clear: the trust issues are not mine, and I would appreciate it if you could get over yours.”

Cassandra scowls. “To be honest, Aeveth, you are sometimes entirely too trusting.”

Aeveth returns the scowl, doubles down on it. “Not in this case, Cassandra. Thom’s actions speak louder than words. And you have no call to say anything to me about trust. We are constantly surrounded by liars, beginning with our beautiful, mysterious, and extremely deadly spymaster.”

“Leliana’s devotion is to the Maker, not coin,” Cassandra says, folding her arms over her chest.

“You’re telling me the only thing that separates what Leliana has done from what Thom has done is service?” Aeveth wears an expression of disbelief. “Cassandra, what Leliana has done - it should haunt her, but it doesn’t. Everything to her is a means to an end, and as long as she can justify it in the name of the Maker, she will do anything. _Anything_ , and you know it.” 

The Inquisitor is angry now, her eyes narrowed, eyebrows drawn down. “What manner of Divine will you be, who cannot forgive a man for transgressions done in the past? None of us are free of sin, not even you, however highly I hold you in esteem. I haven’t forgotten your deception when we first arrived at Skyhold.” The Inquisitor pauses, then says bitterly, “Your deception, and Cullen’s, and Leliana’s. That was a master stroke for someone who doesn’t play the Grand Game, and I’ve been paying ever since. My trust...for your crusade.”

Cassandra blinks, taken aback. She’s not ready for this tirade, this sudden and unexpected turn of subject. “Aeveth, I… I did not realize you felt this way about being Inquisitor.”

Aeveth draws in a great breath, lets it out bit by bit, as if she’s unspooling her feelings, little by little. Cassandra can see that she’s fighting to keep some semblance of composure, notes the shadows under her eyes, the nervous way her fingers are pressing into her arm. After a moment, she speaks. “My apologies. This is about Thom, not me. Hear me out, please. Thom is a good man, no matter what you think. He served a master less demanding and more rewarding than the Maker, and he hates himself for what he’s done. Now he has a second chance in the Inquisition to be the man he wishes he could be. Maker help me, some days I’d rather have him, two of him, _five_ of him, than one Leliana.”

Cassandra says nothing, letting her hackles rise in stony silence, letting the words sink in, knowing that if she tries to say something now, it won’t come out the right way. She has to take Aeveth’s words, turn them over in her mind, sleep on them, revisit them when she’s less emotional.

“It galls me,” Aeveth continues, “that underneath the Inquisition there is a river of blood, and no one says anything about it. We all wade through it, we all pay the toll to cross it. We need Leliana, but do not in any way think that her devotion to the Maker makes her a better person than Thom.” Her voice softens, losing its harsh edge. “I remember you telling the mages to ‘deal with it’ when they first arrived. Now I’m telling you the same. Get over your hurt at the deception - most everyone else has. Accept that Thom is not the man you idolized him as. He is human, flawed like all of us.”

Aeveth uncrosses her arms, places her hands on her knees, and regards her seriously. “Think on it please, Cassandra. I love you dearly, but your views can blind you, and until you come to terms with Thom being here and work things out with him, I can’t rest easy.”

Cassandra leans back in her chair, trying to process everything. Finally, she says, “I will... try to do as you ask, Aeveth. I did not understand the issue troubled you as much as it does.”

“Thank you, Cassandra.”

They sit for for a few minutes more before Aeveth exhales suddenly, following it with a smile. “You _do_ realize that you punch harder than a mule can kick, right?”

She does. “I’ll wager that I’ve put Blackwall into some difficulty.”

Aeveth nods. “Think you could use words next time? No yelling, just talking. Varric doesn’t need any more fuel for his book.”

Cassandra snorts. “And yet he always seems to find it.”

“Yes...yes, he does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk at me, loves~ leave me a comment, if you please! Let me know if I have made a mistake with this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for being patient with this! I apologize for its brevity. But at the same time, I can't imagine these two having a drawn-out, heartfelt talk.
> 
> Thank you all again to those who read, gave kudos, and commented. My appreciation always.

Cassandra approaches Blackwall in what she hopes is a humble way. Not threatening, she tells herself, unsquaring her shoulders, dropping her chin a hair as she nears him in the practice ring. Not threatening, she tells herself again. Apologetic. Somewhat. She’s thought about this over and over in the last week, working through Aeveth’s words, seeking answers with knees on hard stone floor, surrounding herself with the rise and fall of the Chant.

“Blackwall.”

He turns to her, and Cassandra thinks about how easily humility comes to him as opposed to her. Blackwall moves gingerly still from his injuries, but the heaviness which lies upon him is the weight of the coffins he elects to carry. Cassandra wears her pride as readily as she wears the Inquisition tabard, but her chest aches in the spot where she holds her shame, her apology. 

If she lances the boil quickly things will go better, and the wound will not fester.

“My lady Seeker.” He is cautious and respectful, as he always is; that aspect of him had not changed upon the revelation of his duplicity. Cassandra almost wishes it had, that Blackwall had reverted to the self he’s spent so long killing. It would be more simple. That’s what makes Cassandra most comfortable. The simplicity of her sword swing, the simplicity of the Maker’s will, the simplicity of bright, righteous fire. 

Naturally, nothing is ever simple. Her sword swing ends lives and breaks families. The Maker’s will is never direct, subject to the whims of those who claim to interpret it. And the aftertaste of righteousness is like metal, tangy and sour, coating the tongue.

“I need to discuss something with you.” Subtlety is something else she has trouble with.

Blackwall stares at her, then holds out his practice sword. “My lady.”

“No, no,” Cassandra says, backstepping, heat already rising in her cheeks. “I am not here to fight you.”

Blackwall pulls his arm back, a quizzical look in his shadowed eyes. “My lady?”

“I came to apologize.” There, it’s out in front. Cassandra bulls past the surprise on Blackwall’s face. “The Inquisitor had some choice language for me, and I have come to realize that I have been...overly harsh upon you. I treated you as an idea, and not a person. Your actions speak more clearly than your words, and I let my anger take over where I should have allowed reason and grace.”

“Maker’s balls,” Blackwall says, astonished. “What did she tell you?”

Cassandra links her fingers together. “Transfigurations 10:1. The one who repents, who boasts not, nor gloats shall know the peace of the Maker’s benediction.” Cassandra smiles thinly. “She reminded me of those things that one truly devoted to the Maker should hold dear. Aeveth may disavow being the Herald of Andraste, but…” Cassandra straightens and puts her hands behind her back. “I believe the Maker still works through her. And I have been remiss in remembering the teachings of the Chant.”

When Blackwall says nothing, she continues. “I wish to address my mistreatment of you.”

Blackwall clears his throat. “Address how, my lady Seeker? You’ve already said sorry. You’re speaking to me and not through me. That’s more than enough.”

“The only way I know how.” Cassandra taps her cheek. “Here.”

“Pardon?” His eyebrows climb up his forehead.

“You did not defend yourself, nor strike me back when I attacked you in anger.”

“And you think me punching you in the face will make it better?” Blackwalls laughs loudly, then clamps his mouth shut so quickly his teeth click. “My lady.”

“I do not think a simple apology is enough.” Even though Aeveth had said to use words. Cassandra interprets it to mean mostly words, and a small bit of violence.

“Have you thought about what this looks like, me punching you?”

“I do not care what others think.”

Blackwall sighs, tucking his sword beneath his left arm, removing his right glove, pushing up the sleeve of his gambeson. “If you insist, my lady Seeker. But at least let me hit you in the shoulder.”

Cassandra presents her shoulder grudgingly. “Don’t hold back.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Blackwall says, putting down his sword. He draws back his arm.

His hit is solid, his fist connecting with her just below the ball of her shoulder. Cassandra keeps her lips sealed through the pain, stumbling back in order to keep her feet. She breathes in deeply. There will be a bruise, most likely.

“I told you not to hold back.”

Blackwall barks a laugh, rolling down his sleeve. “My lady Seeker, I didn’t.”

“You did not strike with your full strength.” Cassandra glares.

He gives her an incredulous look. “Last week you beat me full sore, and you expect me to be able to lay you out in one?”

“Then hit me again!” She sets her stance, knees slightly bent.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Iron Bull,” Blackwall says. “My lady Seeker, how about we just have some drinks?”

It takes her a moment, but finally she relaxes, lets things come to a close. “Very well. I will buy.”

“Deal.” Blackwall’s eyes hold hers steady. Cassandra extends her forearm, and he clasps it firmly.

She helps him clean up, taking the practice sword back to the rack, waiting for him to deposit his shield in the armory. When he returns Cassandra says, “There is still the matter of the whetstone. I will have no need of it in Val Royeaux.”

“Celestine Black,” Blackwall says quietly. “None better. You should keep it.”

She demurs. “It will be better used on your blade as you protect the Inquisitor.”

His eyebrows climb his forehead again, and his mustache flutters with the force of his snort. “My lady Seeker, I don’t believe for a second that you won’t try to wear armor under your robes and a blade on your hip. There are other stones that will do the job.” 

“But it is yours,” Cassandra says, persistent.

Blackwall grunts. “Just keep it. It’s Orlais. You’ll need it.”

Cassandra allows a smile and begins walking towards the tavern, Blackwall in tow. “I suppose you have a point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin


End file.
